The Outcasts of Poker Flat

Once a boomtown, Poker Flat is now a ghost town, courtesy of Wikipedia.

By Bret Harte in 1871

As Mr. John Oakhurst, a gambler, stepped into the main street of Poker Flat, California, on the morning of November 23, 1850, he was conscious of a change in its moral atmosphere since the preceding night. Two or three men, conversing earnestly together, ceased as he approached and exchanged significant glances. There was a Sabbath lull in the air, which looked ominous in a settlement unused to Sabbath influences.



Mr. Oakhurst’s calm, handsome face betrayed small concern in these indications. Whether he was conscious of any predisposing cause was another question. “I reckon they’re after somebody,” he reflected; “likely it’s me.” He returned to his pocket the handkerchief which he had been whipping away the red dust of Poker Flat from his neat boots and quietly discharged his mind of any further conjecture.

In point of fact, Poker Flat was “after somebody.” It had lately suffered the loss of several thousand dollars, two valuable horses, and a prominent citizen. It was experiencing a spasm of virtuous reaction, quite as lawless and ungovernable as any of the acts that had provoked it. A secret committee had determined to rid the town of all improper persons. This was done permanently regarding two men who were then hanging from the boughs of a sycamore in the gulch and temporarily, in the banishment of certain other objectionable characters. I regret to say that some of these were ladies. However, it is due to the sex to state that their impropriety was professional. It was only in such easily established evil standards that Poker Flat ventured to sit in judgment.

Mr. Oakhurst was right in supposing that he was included in this category. A few of the committee had urged hanging him as a possible example and a sure method of reimbursing themselves from his pockets of the sums he had won from them. “It’s agin justice,” said Jim Wheeler, “to let this yer young man from Roaring Camp — an entire stranger — carry away our money.” But, a crude sentiment of equity residing in the breasts of those who had been fortunate enough to win from Mr. Oakhurst overruled this narrower local prejudice.

Mr. Oakhurst received his sentence with philosophic calmness, nonetheless coolly that he was aware of the hesitation of his judges. He was too much of a gambler not to accept fate. Life was at best, an uncertain game with him, and he recognized the usual percentage in favor of the dealer.

Mine near Poker Flat, California.

Mine near Poker Flat, California.

A body of armed men accompanied the deported wickedness of Poker Flat to the outskirts of the settlement. Besides Mr. Oakhurst, who was known to be a coolly desperate man, and for whose intimidation the armed escort was intended, the expatriated party consisted of a young woman familiarly known as “The Duchess;” another who had won the title of “Mother Shipton,” and “Uncle Billy,” a suspected sluice-robber and confirmed drunkard. The cavalcade provoked no comments from the spectators, nor was any word uttered by the escort. Only when the gulch, which marked the outermost limit of Poker Flat, was reached, the leader spoke briefly and to the point. The exiles were forbidden to return at the peril of their lives.

As the escort disappeared, their pent-up feelings found vent in hysterical tears from the Duchess, some foul language from Mother Shipton, and a Parthian volley of expletives from Uncle Billy. The philosophic Oakhurst remained silent. He listened calmly to Mother Shipton’s desire to cut somebody’s heart out, to the repeated statements of the Duchess that she would die in the road, and to the alarming oaths that seemed to be bumped out of Uncle Billy as he rode forward. With the easy good humor characteristic of his class, he insisted upon exchanging his riding horse, “Five-Spot,” for the sorry mule that the Duchess rode. But, even this act did not draw the party into any closer sympathy. The young woman readjusted her somewhat draggled plumes with a feeble, faded coquetry; Mother Shipton eyed the possessor of “Five-Spot” with hostility, and Uncle Billy included the whole party in one sweeping curse.

The road to Sandy Bar — a camp that, not having yet experienced Poker Flat’s regenerating influences, consequently seemed to offer some invitation to the emigrants — lay over a steep mountain range. It was distant, a day’s severe travel. In that advanced season, the party soon passed out of the moist, temperate regions of the foothills into the Sierras’ dry, cold, bracing air. The trail was narrow and difficult. At noon the Duchess, rolling out of her saddle upon the ground, declared her intention of going no farther, and the party halted.

Poker Player

Poker Player

The spot was singularly wild and impressive. A wooded amphitheater, surrounded on three sides by steep cliffs of naked granite, sloped gently toward the crest of another precipice that overlooked the valley. It was, undoubtedly, the most suitable spot for a camp, had camping been advisable. But, Mr. Oakhurst knew that scarcely half the journey to Sandy Bar was accomplished, and the party was not equipped or provisioned for delay. This fact, he pointed out to his companions curtly, with a philosophic commentary on the folly of “throwing up their hand before the game was played out.” But, they were furnished with liquor, which stood them in place of food, fuel, rest, and forethought in this emergency. Despite his protests, it was not long before they were more or less under its influence. Uncle Billy passed rapidly from a belligerent state into one of stupor, the Duchess became maudlin, and Mother Shipton snored. Mr. Oakhurst alone remained erect, leaning against a rock, calmly surveying them.

Mr. Oakhurst did not drink. It interfered with a profession that required coolness, impassiveness, and presence of mind, and, in his own language, he “couldn’t afford it.” As he gazed at his recumbent fellow exiles, the loneliness begotten of his pariah trade, his habits of life, and his very vices seriously oppressed him for the first time. He busied himself in dusting his black clothes, washing his hands and face, and other acts characteristic of his studiously neat habits and, for a moment, forgot his annoyance. The thought of deserting his weaker and more pitiable companions never perhaps occurred to him. Yet, he could not help feeling the want of that excitement which, singularly enough, was most conducive to that calm equanimity for which he was notorious. He looked at the gloomy walls that rose a thousand feet sheer above the circling pines around him, at the sky ominously clouded, at the valley below, already deepening into shadow. Suddenly, he heard his own name called.



A horseman slowly ascended the trail. In the fresh, open face of the newcomer, Mr. Oakhurst recognized Tom Simson, otherwise known as “The Innocent,” of Sandy Bar. He had met him some months before over a “little game” and had, with perfect equanimity, won the entire fortune–amounting to some forty dollars — of that guileless youth. After the game was finished, Mr. Oakhurst drew the youthful speculator behind the door and thus addressed him: “Tommy, you’re a good little man, but you can’t gamble worth a cent. Don’t try it over again.” He then handed him his money hack, pushed him gently from the room, and made him a devoted slave of Tom Simson.

There was a remembrance of this in his boyish and enthusiastic greeting of Mr. Oakhurst. He had started, he said, to go to Poker Flat to seek his fortune. “Alone? “No, not exactly alone; in fact (a giggle), he had run away with Piney Woods. Didn’t Mr. Oakhurst remember Piney? She that used to wait on the table at the Temperance House? They had been engaged a long time, but old Jake Woods had objected, and so they had run away and were going to Poker Flat to be married, and here they were.

And they were tired out, and how lucky it was they had found a place to camp and company. All this, the Innocent delivered rapidly, while Piney, a stout, comely damsel of 15, emerged from behind the pine tree, where she had been blushing unseen, and rode to her lover’s side.

Mr. Oakhurst seldom troubled himself with sentiment, still less with propriety, but he had a vague idea that the situation was unfortunate. He retained, however, his presence of mind sufficiently to kick Uncle Billy, who was about to say something, and Uncle Billy was sober enough to recognize in Mr. Oakhurst’s kick a superior power that would not bear trifling. He then endeavored to dissuade Tom Simson from delaying further, but in vain. He even pointed out that there were no provisions or means of making a camp. But, unluckily, the Innocent met this objection by assuring the party that he was provided with an extra mule loaded with provisions and discovering a rude attempt at a log house near the trail. “Piney can stay with Mrs. Oakhurst,” said the Innocent, pointing to the Duchess, “and I can shift for myself.”

Nothing but Mr. Oakhurst’s admonishing foot saved Uncle Billy from bursting into a roar of laughter. As it was, he felt compelled to retire up the canyon until he could recover his gravity. There, he confided the joke to the tall pine trees, with many slaps of his leg, contortions of his face, and the usual profanity. But, when he returned to the party, he found them seated by a fire — for the air had grown strangely chill and the sky overcast — in apparently amicable conversation. Piney was actually talking in an impulsive girlish fashion to the Duchess, who was listening with an interest and animation she had not shown for many days. The Innocent was holding forth, apparently with equal effect, to Mr. Oakhurst and Mother Shipton, who was relaxing into amiability. “Is this yer a d–d picnic?” said Uncle Billy, with inward scorn, as he surveyed the group, the glancing firelight, and the tethered animals in the foreground. Suddenly, an idea mingled with the alcoholic fumes that disturbed his brain. It was apparently of a jocular nature, for he felt compelled to slap his leg again and cram his fist into his mouth.

As the shadows crept slowly up the mountain, a slight breeze rocked the tops of the pine trees and moaned through their long and gloomy aisles. The ruined cabin, patched and covered with pine boughs, was set apart for the ladies. They unaffectedly exchanged a kiss as the lovers parted, so honest and sincere that it might have been heard above the swaying pines. The frail Duchess and the malevolent Mother Shipton were probably too stunned to remark upon this last evidence of simplicity, and so turned without a word to the hut. The fire was replenished; the men lay down before the door, and in a few minutes were asleep.

Men at campfire

Men at campfire

Mr. Oakhurst was a light sleeper. Toward morning he awoke numb and cold. As he stirred the dying fire, the wind, which was now blowing strongly, brought to his cheek that caused the blood to leave it, — snow!

He started to his feet to awaken the sleepers, for there was no time to lose. But, turning to where Uncle Billy had been lying, he found him gone. A suspicion leaped to his brain and a curse to his lips. He ran to the spot where the mules had been tethered — they were no longer there. The tracks were already rapidly disappearing in the snow.

The momentary excitement brought Mr. Oakhurst back to the fire with his usual calm. He did not wake the sleepers. The Innocent slumbered peacefully, smiling on his good-humored, freckled face; the virgin Piney slept beside her frailer sisters as sweetly as though attended by celestial guardians; and Mr. Oakhurst, drawing his blanket over his shoulders, stroked his mustache and waited for the dawn.

It came slowly in a whirling mist of snowflakes that dazzled and confused the eye. What could be seen in the landscape appeared magically changed. He looked over the valley and summed up the present and future in two words, “snowed in!”

Sierra Snow

Sierra Snow

A careful inventory of the provisions, which, fortunately for the party, had been stored within the hut, and so escaped the felonious fingers of Uncle Billy, disclosed the fact that with care and prudence, they might last ten days longer. “That is,” said Mr. to the “Innocent,” if you’re willing to board us. If you ain’t — and perhaps you’d better not — you can wait until Uncle Billy gets back with provisions.” For some strange reason, Mr. Oakhurst could not bring himself to disclose Uncle Billy’s rascality and so offered the hypothesis that he had wandered from the camp and had accidentally stampeded the animals. He dropped a warning to the Duchess and Mother Shipton, who knew the facts of their associate’s defection. “They’ll find out the truth about us all when they find out anything,” he added significantly, “and there’s no good frightening them now.”

Tom Simson not only put all his worldly store at the disposal of Mr. Oakhurst but seemed to enjoy the prospect of their enforced seclusion. “We’ll have a good camp for a week, and then the snow’ll melt, and we’ll all go back together.” The cheerful gayety of the young man and Mr. Oakhurst’s calm infected the others. With the aid of pine boughs, the Innocent extemporized a thatch for the roofless cabin, and the Duchess directed Piney in the rearrangement of the interior with a taste and tact that opened the blue eyes of that provincial maiden to their fullest extent. “I reckon now you’re used to fine things at Poker Flat,” said Piney. The Duchess turned away sharply to conceal something that reddened her cheeks through their professional tint, and Mother Shipton requested Piney not to “chatter.” But, when Mr. Oakhurst returned from a weary search for the trail, he heard the sound of happy laughter echoing from the rocks. He stopped in some alarm, and his thoughts naturally reverted to the whiskey he had prudently cached. “And yet it don’t somehow sound like whiskey,” said the gambler. It was not until he caught sight of the blazing fire through the still blinding storm and the group around it that he settled on the conviction that it was “square fun.”

Whether Mr. Oakhurst had cached his cards with the whiskey as something debarred the community’s free access, I cannot say. In Mother Shipton’s words, it was certain that he “didn’t say ‘cards’ once” during that evening. Haply, the time was beguiled by an accordion, produced somewhat ostentatiously by Tom Simson from his pack. Notwithstanding some difficulties attending the manipulation of this instrument, Piney Woods managed to pluck several reluctant melodies from its keys to an accompaniment by the Innocent on a pair of bone castanets. But, the crowning festivity of the evening was reached in a rude camp-meeting hymn, which the lovers, joining hands, sang loudly with great earnestness. The defiant tone and Covenanter’s swing to its chorus, rather than any devotional quality, caused it speedily to infect the others, who at last joined in the refrain: — “I’m proud to live in the service of the Lord, and I’m bound to die in His army.” The pines rocked, the storm eddied and whirled above the miserable group, and the flames of their altar leaped heavenward as if in token of the vow.

Cabin in the winter.

Cabin in the winter.

At midnight the storm abated, the rolling clouds parted, and the stars glittered keenly above the sleeping camp. Mr. Oakhurst, whose professional habits had enabled him to live on the smallest possible amount of sleep in dividing the watch with Tom Simson, somehow managed to take upon himself the greater part of that duty. He excused himself to the Innocent by saying he had “often been a week without sleep.” “Doing what?” asked Tom. “Poker! “replied Oakhurst sententiously. “When a man gets a streak of luck, he don’t get tired. The luck gives in first. Luck,” continued the gambler reflectively, “is a mighty queer thing. All you know about it for certain is that it’s bound to change. And, it’s finding out when it’s going to change that makes you. We’ve had a streak of bad luck since we left Poker Flat, — you come along, and slap, you get into it, too. If you can hold your cards right along, you’re all right. For,” added the gambler, with cheerful irrelevance, “’I’m proud to live in the service of the Lord, and I’m bound to die in His army.’“

The third day came, and the sun, looking through the white-curtained valley, saw the outcasts divide their slowly decreasing store of provisions for the morning meal. It was one of the peculiarities of that mountain climate that its rays diffused a kindly warmth over the wintry landscape as if in regretful commiseration of the past. But it revealed drift on drift of snow piled high around the hut, — a hopeless, uncharted, trackless sea of white lying below the rocky shores to which the castaways still clung. Through the marvelously clear air, the smoke of the pastoral village of Poker Flat rose miles away. Mother Shipton saw it and from a remote pinnacle of her rocky fastness, hurled in that direction a final curse. It was her last reviling attempt, and perhaps for that reason, she was invested with a certain degree of grandiosity. It did her good; she privately informed the Duchess. “Just you go out there and cuss and see.” She then set herself to the task of amusing “the child,” as she and the Duchess were pleased to call Piney. Piney was no chicken, but it was a soothing and original theory of the pair thus to account for the fact that she didn’t swear and wasn’t improper.

When night crept up again through the gorges, the reedy notes of the accordion rose and fell in fitful spasms and long-drawn gasps by the flickering campfire. But, music failed to fill the aching void left by insufficient food, and a new diversion was proposed by Piney, — storytelling. Neither Mr. Oakhurst nor his female companions cared to relate their personal experiences; this plan would have failed too, but for the Innocent. Some months before, he had chanced upon a stray copy of Mr. Pope’s ingenious translation of the Iliad. He now proposed to narrate the principal incidents of that poem — having thoroughly mastered the argument and fairly forgotten the words — in the current vernacular of Sandy Bar. And so, for the rest of that night, the Homeric demigods again walked the earth. Trojan bully and wily Greek wrestled in the winds, and the great pines in the canyon seemed to bow to the wrath of the son of Peleus. Mr. Oakhurst listened with quiet satisfaction. He was especially interested in the fate of “Ash-heels,” as the Innocent persisted in denominating the “swift-footed Achilles.”

So, with little food and much of Homer and the accordion, a week passed over the heads of the outcasts. The sun again forsook them, and again from leaden skies, the snowflakes were sifted over the land. Day by day, closer around them drew the snowy circle, until at last, they looked from their prison over drifted walls of dazzling white that towered twenty feet above their heads. It became more and more difficult to replenish their fires, even from the fallen trees beside them, now half-hidden in the drifts. And yet, no one complained.

The lovers turned from the dreary prospect, looked into each other’s eyes, and were happy. Mr. Oakhurst settled himself coolly to the losing game before him. The Duchess, more cheerful than she had been, assumed the care of Piney. Only Mother Shipton — once the strongest of the party — seemed to sicken and fade. At midnight on the tenth day, she called Oakhurst to her side. “I’m going,” she said, in a voice of querulous weakness, “but don’t say anything about it. Don’t waken the kids. Take the bundle from under my head, and open it.” Mr. Oakhurst did so. It contained Mother Shipton’s rations for the last week, untouched. You give ’em to the child,” she said, pointing to the sleeping Piney. “You’ve starved yourself,” said the gambler. “That’s what they call it,” said the woman querulously, as she lay down again and, turning her face to the wall, passed quietly away.

The accordion and the bones were put aside that day, and Homer was forgotten. When the body of Mother Shipton had been committed to the snow, Mr. Oakhurst took the Innocent aside and showed him a pair of snowshoes, which he had fashioned from the old pack-saddle. “There ‘s one chance in a hundred to save her yet,” he said, pointing to Piney, “but it’s there,” he added, pointing toward Poker Flat. “If you can reach there in two days, she’s safe.” “And you?” asked Tom Simson. “I’ll stay here,” was the curt reply.

The lovers parted with a long embrace. “You are not going, too?” said the Duchess as she saw Mr. Oakhurst apparently waiting to accompany him. “As far as the canyon,” he replied. He turned suddenly and kissed the Duchess, leaving her pallid face aflame and her trembling limbs rigid with amazement. Night came but not Mr. Oakhurst. It brought the storm again and the whirling snow. Then the Duchess, feeding the fire, found that someone had quietly piled beside the hut enough fuel to last a few days longer. The tears rose to her eyes, but she hid them from Piney.

Cowboy in a blizzard, by Frank Feller, around 1900.

The women slept but little. In the morning, looking into each other’s faces, they read their fate. Neither spoke, but Piney, accepting the position of the stronger, drew near and placed her arm around the Duchess’s waist. They kept this attitude for the rest of the day. That night, the storm reached its greatest fury and invaded the very hut, rending the protecting vines asunder.   Toward morning they found themselves unable to feed the fire, which gradually died away. As the embers slowly blackened, the Duchess crept closer to Piney and broke the silence of many hours: “Piney, can you pray?” “No, dear,” said Piney simply. Without knowing exactly why, the Duchess felt relieved and spoke no more, putting her head upon Piney’s shoulder. And so, reclining, the younger and purer pillowing the head of her soiled sister upon her virgin breast, they fell asleep.

The wind lulled as if it feared to waken them. Feathery drifts of snow, shaken from the long pine boughs, flew like white-winged birds and settled about them as they slept. Through the rifted clouds, the moon looked down upon what had been the camp. But, all human stain, all trace of earthly travail, was hidden beneath the spotless mantle mercifully flung from above.

They slept all that day and the next, nor did they waken when voices and footsteps broke the silence of the camp. And when pitying fingers brushed the snow from their wan faces, you could scarcely have told from the equal peace that dwelt upon them which was she that had sinned. Even the law of Poker Flat recognized this and turned away, leaving them still locked in each other’s arms.

But at the head of the gulch, on one of the largest pine trees, they found the deuce of clubs pinned to the bark with a bowie-knife. It bore the following, written in pencil in a firm hand:

Beneath this tree
Lies the body of
John Oakhurst,
Who struck a streak of bad luck
On the 23d of November l850,
And handed in his checks
On the 7th December 1850.

And, pulseless and cold, with a Derringer by his side and a bullet in his heart, though still calm as in life, beneath the snow lay he who was at once the strongest and yet the weakest of the outcasts of Poker Flat.

By Bret Harte, 1871. Compiled and edited by Kathy Alexander/Legends of America, updated April 2022.

About the Author: Francis Bret Harte (1836-1902) was an author and poet best remembered for his accounts of pioneering life in California. Originally from New York, he moved to California in 1853, where he worked several jobs, including miner, teacher, messenger, and journalist. During his lifetime, he published several articles for magazines and several books, including The Luck of the Roaring Camp and Other Tales in 1871, from which this article was excerpted. This tale, however, is not verbatim as it has been edited for the modern reader.

Also See:

Adventures of the American West

California Ghost Towns

Historical Accounts of American History

Tales & Trails of the American Frontier